Final Farewell
by Sth10
Summary: The story of one man's torment


**DISCLAIMER - **None of the TB characters are mine, they belong to Thames/Pearson, yadda, yadda, you know the rest.

**A/N - **This is probably the only 'John death' piece you will ever see from me, cos I simply refuse to believe that John is dead. I only ever write pre-death or as if he had never been killed, Don had never been caught etc, so I don't really know what happened here. Still, enjoy!

**FINAL FAREWELL**

He couldn't escape. He was trapped, trapped by words only he could hear, by images only he could see, by memories only he could remember. In his sleep, he screamed out, yelling that familiar name over and over again until he jerked awake. Sweat streamed down his body but when he raised a shaking hand to his face to wipe away the droplets, he realised it was not wet with sweat, but with tears.  
  
He raked his fingers through his thick, damp hair, fighting to regain his wavering breath. Gradually, his pounding heart slowed to a steadier beat and he untangled his bare legs from the duvet, moving to sit on the edge of the big double bed he now had no one to share with. God, he was scared. He'd never been so scared before. For the first time, he had no idea what he was going to do, what was going to happen. That control he had always had over his life was gone, and he knew he was never going to get it back.  
  
He was distracted by the moonlight, streaming in through the curtains he had forgotten to draw in his drunken state, and causing his light-sensitive eyes to water. He pushed himself up onto legs barely able to hold him and wandered across to the window. A glance at his Rolex told him it was nearly half three. A look at the city skyline revealed darkened windows and quiet roads, for once empty of the constant flow of traffic. The rest of London was asleep, oblivious to one man's turmoil, grief, guilt and fear. He was truly alone now.  
  
He felt tears prick the corners of his eyes again and brushed them away roughly. He'd shed his tears before, tried to release the feelings of guilt and grief that racked him. It hadn't worked.  
  
"What the hell do I do?" he found himself whispering, although he wasn't sure who he was talking to. Maybe to himself, maybe to God, maybe to the one person he really needed to talk to, but was unable to.  
  
Whoever it was gave him no answer and he continued to stare out of the window as the blue lights of an emergency vehicle illuminated the darkened main road below. The familiar sirens reached his ears and he saw an area car speed past, the Sun Hill call sign painted on its roof. His Adam's apple bobbed as his emotions bubbled to the surface and he swallowed hard, drawing the curtains in one sharp movement.  
  
He moved away from the window to the other side of the room, where his clothes lay discarded over the back of the chair. He tugged the jeans on and slid the shirt over his sweat-shined back. He hated them, hated their rough, non-designer feel, but what else was available to him now? Bare feet were pushed into trainers, things he wasn't used to wearing. A leather jacket was thrown over the top and he turned to stare at himself in the mirror. What he saw shocked him. A drawn, wary figure, a mere shadow of the man he had once been.  
  
This is you now, he told himself, you chose it this way. You blew it and you have to deal with that. You lost the game. What a game to lose.

X X X

It took a lot of courage for him to open the gate into the churchyard. His trainers crunched on the gravel path, making him freeze. It took a minute for him to relax and continue walking.  
  
His breathing rate doubled as he stepped onto the grass, breath freezing in the cold air as he exhaled. He drew his jacket tighter around him and turned the collar up. He stopped again and looked back towards the gate. Part of him told him to run, run and never stop running. But his heart gave him the order to carry on and he listened to it.  
  
The silence scared him, scared him more than noise would have done. He was the only person alive in that graveyard, and he realised with a sinking feeling, that perhaps he was the only one who didn't deserve to be. He felt as if the dead were watching him, knowing, wise to what he had done.  
  
"Come on, you bastard." He wasn't sure if his voice was in his head, or whether he had actually spoken the words. "You can't walk away from this one."  
  
His pace became more deliberate as he trod slowly past grave after grave, not looking at any, not acknowledging they were there, until he got to one. He halted there and his shiny eyes read the inscription on the headstone.  
  
John Anthony Boulton – 1968 to 2000. Beloved son, brother and friend. May his spirit always live on.  
  
Don Beech found himself bowing his head, making the sign of the cross across his chest. When he raised his gaze again to look at the grave, his vision was blurred by tears. For a long time he just stood in that position, allowing the memories to overwhelm him.  
  
The headlines of all those newspapers, from the Sun Hill Chronicle to the Sun, came back yet again to haunt him. "Courageous officer brutally murdered by unknown assailant." "Met loses one of its best." "Brave copper dies doing the job he loved." "Detective leaves friends and family grieving after shock killing." He could hear Deakin's words at the funeral "John was one of the best coppers I've ever had the honour to work with. He didn't deserve this..." And he could hear Claire, screaming in anguish, overwhelmed by grief for the man she had loved, calling him a murderer, a cold-blooded killer. That was perhaps what hurt the most. Being accused of murdering his best mate in cold blood.  
  
His legs refused to support him any longer and dropped to his knees in the damp grass. He stayed like that, kneeling in silence, eyes fixed on the headstone. He hadn't wanted any of this. He hadn't wanted to kill John, he hadn't even wanted to hurt him. He'd been his best mate, for Christ's sake. He'd tried to protect him, help him. He hadn't tried to murder him.  
  
He felt the tears begin to spill out of his eyes and stream down his cheeks. God, John, I'm so sorry. I loved you, mate. I didn't plan this. I'd do anything to turn the clock back, John. I can't believe all this has happened. He closed his eyes and an image of John as he used to be flashed in his head; laughing, relaxed, happy, sharing a joke down the pub. Then that image disappeared and was replaced by one of Claire, standing wrapped in John's arms as he ran his fingers through her hair in that way he'd had. Don saw the love in their eyes as they looked at each other and he clenched his fists, forcing his eyelids up to escape the memory.  
  
I've ruined their lives. I've destroyed everything they had. They were in love, they'd found happiness. Now Claire's lost everything that really mattered to her. And John... John's lost his life.  
  
He choked back a sob, allowing his head to fall into his hands. For minutes he just cried, for John, for Claire, and for himself. And when there were no more tears he stood, wiping his eyes dry with the back of his hand. He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small leather coverslip emblazoned with badge of the Metropolitan Police, a force he had once been so proud to belong to. Slowly, he raised it to his lips and kissed it once, before laying it underneath the flowers in front of John's headstone.  
  
"I'm still with you, mate." The words caught in his throat. "I'll always be your best mate. No matter what."  
  
He looked at his best friend's grave one last time. He knew he would never see it again.  
  
"Goodbye, John," he whispered. 

**  
EPILOGUE  
**

Claire Stanton pushed open the gate and trod the familiar route through the rows of headstones to John's grave. She did this every Tuesday; Tuesday had been the day when she and John had shared their first kiss. Sometimes someone from Sun Hill would meet up with her; Deakin or Geoff, now at different nicks, Duncan or Mickey, still at Sun Hill though rather unsettled, occasionally John's old mates from various divisions. But she preferred it when she was alone. Alone with the only man she had ever truly loved.  
  
She didn't normally bring flowers. She didn't think John would have appreciated them in the old days. Sometimes she would hear his voice, warm with the smooth edge of Scouse "Flowers? You tryin' to tell me something?" It made her smile and reminded her of the good times she'd had with John, the times when she felt so secure, so warm, so loved.  
  
Today, however, she had brought flowers. Plain, simple white things; she didn't even know the name of them. She wasn't even sure why she had them; it had just seemed right earlier. She crouched down in front of the grave and, as usual, read the inscription that she, together with John's brother and the old CID, had decided upon. The words gave her some small reassurance, told her that John was still with her, in spirit, His soul would never leave her. Even if death, he would still love her, protect her, keep her safe from bastards like Don Beech.  
  
Claire carefully removed the dead flowers placed there by Deakin the last time he had visited. As she leant forward to place her own bunch in their place, she saw a familiar piece of leather. A frown crossed her face as she slowly picked it up. She half-expected to see John's photo as she opened the warrant card. Instead, she saw Don Beech.  
  
For a long time she just stared at the card, at the icy blue eyes and the thin mouth twisted into a cocky look. She wanted to throw it to the ground, stamp on it, tear it into a million pieces, somehow destroy it like Don had destroyed John's life. But something stopped her. Something told her not to. She looked at the grave and then up at the sky.  
  
Then she slipped the card back under the flowers.


End file.
